Journal of Septimus Signus
by MichaelConnor
Summary: A series of volumes written in the style of in-game journals from The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, meant to build upon the character of Septimus Signus from the Discerning the Transmundane quest. Rated T just to be safe & for future chapters. Popular Vote Winner of The Imperial Library's 20th Anniversary Writing Contest!
1. Volume 1

**Journal of Septimus Signus, v. 1, circa 4E 193** ~ _found in one of the abandoned rooms in the Hall of Attainment of the College of Winterhold_

When I was a little boy, I heard many tales about the great emperor Tiber Septim, how he was both a masterful warrior and a cunning leader. He fought alongside Ysmir and Zurin Arctus, who both eventually betrayed him to further their own agendas (see _The Arcturian Heresy_ for contradictory information on this subject). He conquered men and mer alike, unifying Skyrim for the first time since the Reman dynasty.

He was a hero. But what truly entranced me, as a young lad, were the stories of how Tiber Septim ascended into the ranks of the Divines. As the local Nords would say, he was such a great warrior in life that the aedra honored him with the gift of godhood. I wanted that. I wanted to be just like Tiber Septim, a warrior who becomes a god after their death. This, I knew, was my destiny.

My dream was quickly slaughtered by the harsh reality of my life: I was scrawny and pale, the kind of boy who bullies picked on simply because I was little. Honestly, children everywhere are the same, whether it's Cyrodiil, High Rock, Skyrim, or Taneth. Actually, I bet Redguard children have been taught the value of honor from a young age, so they don't get in fights as much (see my second journal for more on my childhood). But that's neither here nor there.

Boy, did I desperately want to be Talos Stormcrown. So much so, in fact, that when I stretched forth my hand and called upon the storms themselves to defend me from a group of miscreants, I considered the lightning that flowed from my palm like water from a skin to be the very proof that I was Tiber Septim reincarnated. The adults around me, though, were much more level-headed, and immediately recognized the force that had killed the bullies as magic. And they were scared. So, they sent me to the Synod for training.

The Synod don't care about training young mages, especially when such mages are below the age of majority. So they, in turn, sent me to the College of Winterhold in Skyrim, where I studied under the tutelage of Faralda and Archmage Aren. They taught me how to control and wield my powers, as that was what I desired to do, but the Archmage asked me that whenever I fulfilled whatever personal quest I was on, I return to the College as a scholar, not a student. He said that my interpretations of magical theory were uniquely insightful, and that I should do more to further the magical education of Skyrim instead of serving myself. I, being a young and proud mage, discarded his advice whatsoever (see my third journal for more on my time at the College).

And so I set out to become a powerful spellsword, the likes of which Tamriel had never seen. But after many years of this (see journals four and five for some of my adventures), I still was completely unknown to the general public: I was nowhere near becoming a hero of the caliber of Tiber Septim, and that's when the question dawned on me. What is it about heroes that makes them so special? It cannot be bravery alone, for hundreds of soldiers are as brave as the mightiest heroes.

Slowly but surely I made the transition from warrior mage to magical scholar as I investigated the qualities of a hero. I made one intriguing discovery: every mortal hero that is known among scholars was a prisoner before they were put through the flames of combat and emerged as someone to look up to (Pelinal Whitestrake doesn't count). These include the Eternal Champion, the Hero of Daggerfall, the Nerevarine, and, most recently, the Hero of Kvatch. But this had to be just a coincidence. There's nothing about being a prisoner that is extraordinary.

I explored many alternative routes, from CHIM to mantling (see journal six for my theory on Septim's apotheosis) to prophecy. While a couple seemed to explain the qualities of a particular hero or two, none of my theories ever supported my entire list of heroic figures. And that's when I asked a friend I met at college, Urag Gro-Shub, for help.

"Urag, do you know of any factors that have linked all of the heroes in Tamriel's history?"

"What about CHIM?"

"Doesn't work, ultimately."

"The Heart of Lorkhan?"

"No, that's just the Nerevarine. Whatever you're thinking, assume I've already ruled it out. Now say whatever's left."

He thought for a moment.

"What about the Elder Scrolls?"

Truth be told, I had never considered the Elder Scrolls before, nor did I know much about them. At that point, investigating the Elder Scrolls seemed as good a choice as any, so I decided to head back to Cyrodiil to learn more. I still had a few friends in the Imperial City from my (brief) time in the Synod, and they got me an audience with a Moth Priest.

It was hardly a meeting. The blindfolded priest was in the midst of recovering from the reading of an Elder Scroll, and was confined to his bed to gather his strength. I'm mostly sure that no one else wanted to talk to me, so they saddled the bedridden guy with the interview. At any rate, I talked for a long time. Asked if I could read an Elder Scroll. Of course, the reply was no. An emphatic no. I think I may have pressured him for too long, because he eventually snapped and shouted for another priest to enter.

"Invictus, bring me the book. You know the one. Now!"

I felt kind of bad for Invictus, but those thoughts soon left my mind as he returned with an aged leather bound journal.

"This is a copy of a copy of a copy," the Moth Priest told me, handing the book to me. "But years of transcription didn't make it any more unintelligible. It began that way."

"What is it?"

"It's proof, Signus. Proof that you'll never achieve what you're looking for."

I opened to the title page. Ruminations on the Elder Scrolls, by Septimus Signus. It was set to be published in a couple decades.

"What is this?" I asked, hands shaking, as I read the words on the page over and over and over again.

"It's the incoherent ramblings of an aged madman," the Moth Priest replied. "It appeared behind an Elder Scroll sometime in the First Era, we think, but was discovered in the Second, during the Interregnum. For thousands of years, we didn't know if it was a prank by an ancient member of our order or something else entirely. But, when you started asking your incessant questions, I knew that it had to be real."

I read the words on the page. Everything he said was true; I couldn't understand a word of my own writings. So I threw the book into the fire and left the White-Gold Tower in a haste.

I returned to the College of Winterhold and took Archmage Aren up on his offer. I needed to study the Elder Scrolls, to see if this self-fulfilling prophecy could be averted. I've been studying for two decades now, and I think I have a grasp on what the Elder Scrolls are. They're...notebooks, of a kind, left behind by some super-dimensional being (possibly Lorkhan?) who could alter the past and the present and the future with a stroke of the pen. From what I understand, the Dwemer were on to the same concept...I think they were trying to mantle this being, but were interrupted by their disappearance (or is their disappearance the result of their experiment?). In any case, however, I have yet to lay eyes on an actual Scroll.

I have a lead on one. A man I met the other day, claiming to be a Daedric Prince (would you believe that?) turned me on to an ancient Dwemer ruin on Vvardenfell which might contain an Elder Scroll. I'm going to head there in a few weeks' time; if I fail, I might try to steal one from the Moth Priests. Those things go missing all the time on their own accord, so I'm sure they won't give it a second thought.

I'm leaving this journal here, in my room in the Hall of Attainment, to explain my sudden disappearance. Hopefully, I'll come back, and when I do, I'll have all the knowledge of an Elder Scroll. Take care, my dear Colette. Don't become a grumpy old lady if I disappear forever. And no matter what those other mages say, Restoration is a perfectly valid school of magic! Don't let anyone tell you otherwise.

S. Signus


	2. Volume 2

**Journal of Septimus Signus, v. 2, circa 4E 193** ~ _found in the Riften Orphanage_

Childhood in Bruma was not kind, not kind at all. This was largely the result of the population - racist Nords interbred with well-to-do Imperials? They looked down on others and had the money to justify themselves. The other children saw the attitudes of their parents and adopted them as well. Not that they needed prodding...kids naturally tend to form cliques, as I have found.

I never knew my father - he passed away before I was born - but he must not have been that strong...my mother, a proud Nibenese-Nordic woman, was certainly not the cause of my short stature as a child. The only other thing I can think of was that my father must've been some weak Imperial, but in any case, I was frequently the target of the other kids' jests and jabs when I was younger.

There was a time when we were all innocent; unknowing of violence, exclusion, prejudice, and hate. I was only about six years old, and had just met all of the other children in Bruma for the first time (a friend of my mother's had gotten married, and all the children were invited to the reception). Of course, there was a girl who caught my eye, but I was too shy at that time to say anything to her. In hindsight, I also have no idea _what_ I even would have said...I had no experience in romance, and barely any in life, at that.

It didn't really matter, for that night, I met someone else, someone who would become my best friend: Staefan Leronius, a brutish hulk of a Nord with a taste for victory. We met during a game of Men-and-Mer, or as today's youth call it, Capture the Standard. Leronius, being the natural leader that he was, was made the de facto captain of our team. He wasn't big on strategy, though...I easily remember him yelling "CHAAARGE" and pointing a stick in the air like a sword being his most common plan of attack. One time, however, I (being a natural strategist at the mere age of six) suggested that we send all but one person out as a distraction while a spy sneaks in and grabs the other team's standard. Keep in mind that both teams usually sent all of their members to the front lines of the battle, so this "strategy" of mine was quite revolutionary. When we easily won the game, Staefan and I became friends.

After that successful game of Men-and-Mer, I became enthralled with combat. A Nord uncle I had used to tell me of how the great hero Talos Stormcrown fought his way to the Ruby Throne and eventually to godhood. I saw myself in Talos, so much so that I bragged to my friends about how someday I would be Emperor of Tamriel. Like I had any clue about what the real world, or real combat, was like. As expected, the other kids soon tired of my prideful boasts, so I quit talking about it. I was smart, after all; I knew that I valued friendship more than bragging, and I didn't want to be alone.

Staefan was different from me. I was valuable to society, at that age, because I was ever so slightly smarter than everyone else. Staefan, on the other hand, was popular, and nothing can rank higher than popularity in the minds of children. His other friends, unlike Staefan himself, never quite understood why he associated himself with me. They were never rude, per se, but they were never overtly friendly with me.

One summer, my Nord uncle took me on a vacation to the Imperial City. I had the time of my life, but it didn't last. When I got back to Bruma, none of the other kids would talk to me. At first, I thought something terrible had happened; a plague, a war, or some other childish fantasy. I would greet children on the street, and they'd simply walk by me. Sometimes I'd hear them whispering behind my back, but when I would turn around, they'd stop. It was agonizing.

The only thing more painful, however, was Staefan's rejection of our friendship. At some unconscious level, he was aware of the fact that the other kids were friends with him because of his popularity and only that; popularity, as all children know, is a painful and fragile thing, as once one friend falls away all the others do as well. It is necessary, therefore, to keep oneself in the good graces of your friends, lest you lose popularity and find yourself in the same boat as my seven-year-old self.

Staefan's friends didn't like me anymore...for whatever reason, I couldn't tell you. But it hurt. And when Staefan didn't respond to me either, it hurt even more. But the kids couldn't keep quiet around me forever, and they knew that. So eventually it turned to teasing.

Incessant, endless teasing.

"He's got a big head, too big for his tiny body!"

"Look at his hands! They're so small!"

"He doesn't look like the next Emperor to me!"

Out of all of those, the last one hurt the most. I knew that I was destined for the throne, but these kids were blatantly saying otherwise.

"Just you wait!" I'd respond. "You'll see! I _am_ going to become the Emperor of Tamriel!"

I immersed myself in Talos myths and Septim history. I could tell you the details of every single battle in Talos's military campaign, or how Tiber Septim made peace with the Dunmer in exchange for the Numidium. Nothing was unknown to me.

This only further alienated me from my peers, however. They continued to play war with each other, not caring for book-learning. And when they were grown enough to discard childish ethics, they pretended to make war on me. Of course, it was only pretend in that they didn't mean to kill me. I, on the other hand, was never sure of that fact.

It happened, one day in Frostfall, that Staefan and his lackeys cornered me behind a shed on my way home from the local Mages Guild. I never really ventured there for reasons other than the library it housed, but that didn't matter to Staefan and his Nord-minded friends. In their eyes, mages and magic were for those too weak to wield a sword. And, to some degree, I agreed with them.

Anyway, as they were beating me left and right, I got fed up with their bullying. I knew that I was destined to be the next Tiber Septim; now a child, soon a warrior, then Emperor, and finally a god. They kicked me over into a corner and started mocking me. As they did, I stretched forth both my hands in a last, desperate gesture.

"Lightning of the heavens!" I shouted, doing my best to emulate what I'd imagined Talos's Shouts had sounded like. I put all of my will into that shout of my own. It had to do something.

And, to my utter surprise, it did.

Lightning lept from my hands like a Senche-tiger at its prey. I watched, almost in slow-motion, as the bolts of energy zigzagged down Staefan's body, leaving smoking trails of charred skill. I poured all of the energy I had into that one burst of magic; I had no idea when it would end, or if I could ever do it again. So I practically flooded Staefan with lighting...and as his body crumpled to the ground, it dissolved into a cloud of fine ash.

The other kids ran away in horror, and the mages at the Mages Guild (who were, in truth, little more than bookworms) sent me to the Synod for training.

S. Signus


End file.
